


Send Newts

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, And Stiles has money and needs a husband so people will stop bugging him, Arranged Marriage, Fandom Cares, Innocent Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Peacocks, Regency Romance, Talia manipulates him, The Hales need money, i'm handwaving the historical bits, ish, marriage by proxy, newts, peter is a reluctant groom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:49:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25085701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: The first thing Peter notices is that Talia’s smiling, and that in itself makes him suspicious. When he sees that Laura’s smiling too, his distrust intensifies. “What?” he demands? “What is it?”Talia’s smile widens as she serves him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it. “Just wondering if your new husband knows you’re such a curmudgeon in the mornings,” she says sweetly.Peter’s cup clatters against the table and the tea spreads in a puddle, ignored. “My what?”“New husband,” Laura chimes in, and then she’s wrapping her arms around Peter’s neck, and saying, “Thank you, Uncle Peter,” and hugging him tight, and the memory of last night tugs at him again.What happened again, exactly?
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 517
Kudos: 1971
Collections: Fandom Cares





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maladicta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maladicta/gifts).



> This is for the lovely Maladicta. who bid on me in the FAndom Cares Black Lives Matter Auction.  
> She gives the best prompts and doesn't even care when they go whizzing wildly off the rails.  
> In my defence, this one's pretty close. the prompt was :" hounded by his sister Baroness Hale for his unattractive, unmanly and unmarriagable habits (and having embarrassed her publicly one too many times), Lord Peter Hale is married off to young Viscount Stilinski. Vis Stilinski has some unsavoury habits of his own (mainly his obsession with salamanders and newts), and is not quite sure what to do with a husband, or even if he wants one at all. "
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, Miss M!

Peter opens one eye gingerly, squints at the light streaming though the not-quite-drawn curtains, groans, and slams them shut. He’s never drinking again.

He means it this time.

He tries to go back to sleep, but the pounding in his skull, the dryness in his mouth, and the pressure on his bladder conspire to make it a pointless exercise. He levers himself upright with another groan, and manages to stagger to the water closet, relieve himself, and splash some cold water on his face, peering at himself in the mirror. He does his best to avoid looking at the scars on his throat, but he’s not entirely successful. His eyes are bloodshot, and he looks exactly as terrible as he feels.

Definitely never drinking again.

He wishes he could ring for a manservant to help him dress, but they’re on a skeleton staff right now, due to their reduced circumstances. Through an unfortunate series of events, the Hale family are, for want of a better word, poor. Peter winces at the very thought of it, but it’s a cold hard fact.

He can’t even blame his nephew, although the petty, mean part of him wants to sometimes. It’s not Derek’s fault that the new kitchen maid mistook his stilted ‘good mornings’ as a sign he was interested in her romantically, nor that she became fixated on him. And nobody could have foreseen that, after Derek haltingly told her that she’d misunderstood, there could be nothing between them, that she’d fly into a rage and burn the house down with them all inside.

They’d made it out, barely, thanks to Derek’s bloodhound howling fit to wake the dead and certainly loud enough to wake the sleeping. It was only his niece Cora who’d faltered before the flames, and Peter hadn’t thought twice before dashing back in and dragging her to safety, even though it meant he’d forever bear the kiss of flames against his skin.

It’s a small price to pay, most days.

Escaping with their lives was one thing, but Kate, (for that was the madwoman’s name) had done her job so thoroughly that the manor was reduced to rubble, and the entire family fortune had gone into rebuilding. It was necessary apparently, in order to uphold the family reputation, to re-establish themselves in the county seat. Peter personally thinks that it was something of a waste, but he and his sister, the matriarch, have never exactly seen eye to eye.

She thinks him odd.

He thinks her vain.

Regardless, the family name is safe, the fortune is spent, and now the Hales are in negotiations to marry Peter’s niece Laura off to one of the more recent, less reputable but better funded members of the aristocracy. _New money_ , Talia calls it with a disapproving sniff. That doesn’t seem to stop her trying to access it, Peter thinks snidely. 

The thought of Laura’s betrothal tugs at something in Peter’s brain, something from last night when he’d been deep in his cups. She’d been crying about it, he remembers dimly. He can’t quite remember what happened, and he’s not in any fit state to think about it right now, not without at least a cup of tea and a slice of toast.

He sits on the side of the bed and debates crawling back under the blankets, but he knows if he does his sister will come and drag him up because apparently its _unseemly_ to lie in. Peter would like to know who’s even watching, but on this Talia is immovable. Sloth is one of the seven deadly sins, and she won’t tolerate it.

Peter sighs, stands, and starts to dress himself. At least if he makes it to the kitchen there may be a headache powder for the taking.

* * *

The first thing Peter notices is that Talia’s smiling, and that in itself makes him suspicious. When he sees that Laura’s smiling too, his distrust intensifies. “What?” he demands? “What is it?”

Talia’s smile widens as she serves him a cup of tea, made just how he likes it. “Just wondering if your new husband knows you’re such a curmudgeon in the mornings,” she says sweetly.

Peter’s cup clatters against the table and the tea spreads in a puddle, ignored. “My _what?_ ”

“New husband,” Laura chimes in, and then she’s wrapping her arms around Peter’s neck, and saying, “Thank you, Uncle Peter,” and hugging him tight, and the memory of last night tugs at him again. What happened, exactly?

“It was noble of you to step up, brother, and I’m grateful to you,” Talia says. “I can admit now that Laura marrying the Greenberg boy wasn’t ideal, but we were desperate, until you agreed to Lord Stilinski’s proposal.”

Peter’s brow furrows.

Stilinski.

The young man who Talia had held up before him weeks ago as a potential husband, telling him that she’d received an offer from the new Lord for Peter’s hand. She’d pointed out that not every suitor would accommodate Peter’s proclivities, that he could do a lot worse, and that she expected an answer within the week.

Peter had ignored her, as he had every other time she’d tried to marry him off, and when he didn’t hear any more he’d assumed the whole thing had blown over.

Apparently not.

Peter gets a terrible sinking feeling. “What did you do, Talia?”

Talia gives him a triumphant look. “I didn’t do anything. You accepted the offer. Congratulations Peter, you have a husband.”

Peter stares at her, open-mouthed. “How? I don't remember agreeing!” he sputters, once he can speak.

“Oh, but you did. Just because you can’t remember it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

Peter has a sudden flashback to the night before, to the way his glass was always full, the way Talia didn’t try and curb his consumption like she normally did, and an awful suspicion forms. “You got me drunk of purpose,” he accuses, “so I’d be insensible and unable to protest. And you,” he points a shaking finger at Laura, ” were a part of it somehow.”

To her credit, Laura drops her gaze. “It wasn’t all an act,” She says quietly. “I really couldn’t stomach being married to Mr Greenberg. He’s unpleasant and he smells odd and the one time I met him all he could talk about was how his family made their money.” She shudders. In fairness, having met Greenberg, Peter can’t say he blames her. It doesn’t completely erase the bitterness he feels, though.

“You played me,” he grumbles at Talia. “You got me drunk and appealed to my softer side.”

“That’s because you only have a softer side when you drink,” Talia observes. “In vino veritas, isn’t that what they say?”

“I refuse,” Peter says, more confidently than he feels. “I’ve changed my mind, I take it back.”

“You can’t. You signed a marriage by proxy, the papers were witnessed and have been sent. You’re married to Lord Stilinski, and there’s no getting out of it.”

“It might not be so bad,” Laura offers. “At least he’s handsome. Sort of.”

She’s not wrong. The Stilinski boy has a certain appeal to him – he’s slightly awkward, but it’s offset by his charming smile when he laughs at his own clumsiness. And he’s generally cheerful, if Peter’s memory serves him correctly. Of course, they’ve only met briefly, when his father, the Viscount, was still a soldier, before he saved the prince’s life and was rewarded with land and coin and a title. The father had been on guard duty at a ball, and the boy had been lingering among the lower nobility, possibly as a guest of the McCalls'. The boy wasn’t hideous, Peter recalls dimly.

Neither was Peter, back then.

He wonders if his new husband is aware that Peter’s…damaged. Possibly not, otherwise why would he possibly agree to this farce? Peter sighs, rubs a hand down his face, and fetches a fresh cup of tea and some toast. He refuses to catch Talia’s eye, refuses to acknowledge that she’s won, just eats and drinks in silence.

After breakfast he retreats to his peacock enclosure, where he sulks over his misfortune in the company of the raucous birds for a full day, and when he finally goes inside for dinner, he makes sure his boots leave a trail of peacock shit down the hallway, purely because he knows Talia will have to clean it.

* * *

Stiles looks from the papers to his father, and back at the papers again. “And it’s definitely Lord _Peter_ Hale?”

His father nods. “Lord Peter. Congratulations, son, you’ve managed to find a decent husband.” _Despite your odd habits_ goes unsaid.

Stiles smiles, pleased, because it means the odd habits he deliberately cultivated have done exactly what he meant them to - weeded out anyone offering to marry him just for his money. When his father had thrown himself in front of the eldest prince, taking a bullet to the knee and foiling an assassination attempt, he’d been rewarded with an estate, a title and more money than was decent by an extremely grateful king, and suddenly they’d gone from a single widower and his awkward son to highly coveted potential partners overnight.

Stiles had been overwhelmed, at first, by the sheer volume of offers and invitations from impoverished noble families who were eager to marry their offspring to him, but then he’d decided that he’d play the game, but play it his way. And so for the past year, he’s accepted any and all invitations to meet with potential suitors…and then spent their time together talking about the most bizarre subjects he can imagine – the history of male circumcision, the legend of the Beast of Gevaudan and whether there’s any truth to it, and his favorite, the care and breeding of newts.

Stiles does actually like newts – he always has. He’s fascinated by their curious bodies and ability to regenerate body parts, and he loves the wide variety of species, the way they come in such bright, bold colors, unapologetic about who they are. He sometimes wishes he could have the confidence of a newt, proudly flout his differences, but he’s not that brave. As it is, it had taken six months of refusing every single female suitor before his father had sighed and suggested he just stick to men, stop pretending, and be done with it.

Stiles hadn’t wanted to tell his father about his preferences, aware that some still considered it not the done thing, but he had to admit he’d heaved a sigh of relief once it was out in the open.

It hadn’t slowed the queue of suitors – it just meant he was sent letters from the parents of sons instead of daughters. He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised – the king really had been generous, and by any standards the Stilinskis are obscenely wealthy. And it had occurred to him one day that maybe, among all those proposals, if he actually looked, he might even find a good match.

He’d started to take the meetings more seriously, but Stiles was and always had been what his father generously called ‘a character’, and he found himself easily bored with the stilted niceties that were expected of him. And so he’d let his attention wander, and before he knew it the conversation would be back to newts or animal husbandry, and he’d find his potential partner staring at him silently, mouth hanging open, and know that they weren’t the one for him.

If Stiles had to take a husband, he didn’t want just any husband. He wanted someone with a fire in their belly, a spark of passion, someone who had interests and opinions of their own and wouldn’t just be content to sit meekly at his side as a silent offering on the altar of their parents’ financial need.

And Stiles wanted someone engaging. He wanted their conversations to have two sides, so they had to be clever, and quick-witted. Handsome too, if he could manage it.

He’d been espousing on his wish for a clever, engaging man to his father one day when his father had said, “You know, son, you could send out letters of your own.”

Stiles had blinked. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he might be the one making the offers. “Who could I _possibly_ ask?”

His father had raised an eyebrow, a twinkle in his eye. “Did you ever meet Lord Hale?”

Stiles had screwed up his nose. “The broody one? The one who told me he's afraid of lizards?”

His father had laughed and said, “No, not Derek. His uncle Peter.”

At the mention of the name, Stiles had perked up. “I think I remember him. Neck like a tree trunk, nice teeth, inappropriate comments, disapproving sister?” He said it casually, as if he hadn’t spent a memorable evening last summer pining over the man after a single conversation five sentences long, during which Stiles had stuttered and blushed and tried not to let his gaze wander too obviously to the pleasing thickness of the man’s thighs, or his well-muscled chest.

His Dad had nodded, smiling. “It occurs to me that he’s exactly your type. And I’ve heard that after the fire the Hales find themselves in reduced circumstances. A proposal might be welcome.” His expression had become more serious. “Of course, you’re aware he has scars from the fire?”

Stiles had nodded, deep in thought. Everyone had heard how Lord Hale had rescued his niece and paid the price in scar tissue. “How bad is it?” he’d asked, hating himself for even caring. It’s not like he was any great prize himself.

But his father hadn’t judged, just said, “Not as bad as the gossips make out. He’s still a handsome man son, he just has scarring on one side of the throat, from what I’ve seen.”

And Stiles had thought about it, thought about the man with the rakish grin and devil-may-care attitude and deliciously broad shoulders, the man who he’d spent one memorable evening quietly watching, and decided that yes, he’d take a chance and send a letter, even if nothing would come of it.

Except, it had.

Lady Talia Hale had sent a reply not two days later, accepting on her brother’s behalf, not even requesting a meeting first. She’d requested the papers be sent for a wedding by proxy, citing difficulties arranging travel, and assured them they’d be returned at the earliest possible opportunity. It wasn’t completely unheard of, and Stiles suspected she didn’t trust her brother not to insult someone and stymie the betrothal process. Peter was infamous for his lack of manners – almost as infamous as Stiles was for his newts.

Stiles didn’t care.

Peter had said yes, and Stiles wasted no time sending the papers back.

And then he waited.

And waited.

And now, after the longest three weeks of his life, they’re back - the signature a little unsteady, the ink smudged - but all perfectly legal.

Lord Stilinski has a new husband.

He can’t wait to meet him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter drags his feet.  
> Stiles won't stand for it.

Peter ignores his marriage, the attached obligations, and Talia's nagging for as long as possible, but the day comes when Talia storms into the sitting room and points at him accusingly. “Where were you yesterday?” she demands.

“You’ll get wrinkles, sister, if you continue to frown like that,“ Peter says mildly, as if he isn’t aware that he’s the reason she has a face like thunder.

“You missed the coach _again_ ,” she hisses, her frown deepening. “This is the fourth time you’ve disappeared when you were meant to leave for Beacon Hall. It’s been a month! What shall I tell Lord Stilinski this time?”

“Tell him I had a sick peacock. Or my giant vegetables needed tending,” Peter says. “Tell him whatever you want. You seemed to have no lack of things to say when you married me off, after all.”

Peter expects Talia throw her hands up and walk away like she’s done the last three times they had this conversation but instead her fingers curl into fists. Peter watches carefully as she breathes deeply once, twice, and forces herself to rein in her temper, something she only does when she is really, truly, dreadfully angry, and he thinks to himself that perhaps he’s finally pushed too far.

His suspicions are confirmed when she speaks. “Peter,” she says, “You cannot continue to avoid your responsibilities like this. Like it or not, you are married to Lord Stilinski. I’ll allow you a few days to get your affairs in order, but if you don’t board the next coach, I swear I shall have Derek throw a sack over your head, hogtie you, and deliver you on horseback.” Her voice is low and carefully controlled, but Peter can hear the anger that’s simmering there.

He looks at his sister, sees the determined set to her jaw, and in that moment, he doesn’t doubt for a second that she will do exactly as she says if he doesn’t cooperate.

He pinches at the bridge of his nose. “There is absolutely no way you’re going to let this marriage not stand, is there?” he says with a sigh. “Even if I detest the boy.”

“Even if he’s green and scaly and can regrow limbs like the lizards he’s so fond of,” Talia confirms. She sits stiffly in the wingback chair opposite. “We are _desperate,_ Peter. The bill has come for the grocer and they’ve said there will be no more credit given. We have had to pay for the hire of the coaches you failed to board. We have no coal, and the cook’s wages are due.”

Oh.

Peter hadn’t realized things were quite that dire. He sits straighter in his chair, one hand fluttering at the cravat he wears to hide his scars. It seems there will be no avoiding this for much longer. His gut curls when he thinks of the way the boy will doubtless gawk and stare at Peter’s disfigurement like everyone else does. Perhaps he’ll be so repulsed that Peter will be released from the marriage that way, and at least nobody will be able to blame him for it.

He finds the spectre of rejection cuts deeper than he’d expected it to. He didn’t want to be married off, but neither does he want to be cast aside as too hideous even for a newly minted aristocrat’s son. Talia’s still looking at him beseechingly. He slumps in defeat and says, “Friday at noon. I shall take the coach then.”

A tiny ghost of a smile appears on her face. “See that you do. I’ll have Derek waiting with a sack just in case.” She stands and sweeps from the room, and he knows it’s only partly a jest. 

He eases himself out of his chair and goes to his rooms, where he extracts once again the introductory letter from Lord Mieczyslaw (“please, call me Stiles”). It doesn’t follow the rules of form letters at _all,_ and despite his ire at being married off and the way he’s dragged his feet, Peter’s forced to admit that he finds the hints of his new husband’s personality fascinating.

_Lord Hale,_ the letter says, _or shall I call you husband? How queer that we are married sight unseen like this, but then, my actions have often been called queer, so I should not be surprised that my marriage starts off so._

_I look forward to welcoming you to Beacon Hall. I trust you will find the accommodations to your liking. The manor is larger than two single men could ever have use for, and I find myself puzzled as to why my father and I need eight servants to tend us, but I am assured that this is normal. Eight, husband!_

_It seems very odd to me. Perhaps as someone who has grown up in the peerage you can explain to me why eight poor souls must get out of their bed before dawn, all so that I should not walk into a room without a blazing fire and dusted ornaments. I am not swarthy by any means, but I am not so dainty that I fear a dust mote shall be my undoing._

Peter snorts at that.

_I look forward to your imminent arrival. We have prepared your rooms, and I am informed you keep peacocks, which excites me greatly. I too have a keen interest in nature – I have quite an impressive selection of rare newts, and I hope you find them as fascinating as I do. I am aware they are not to everyone’s taste, but I find they hold a strange appeal. ~~It would be good, do you not think, if we could also regrow our skin and bones after we were damaged?~~_

Peter’s mouth tightens at the crossed-out sentence. He’d had to squint and hold the paper up to the light to read it the first time, and it had made his gut curl. He wondered why the boy hadn’t simply rewritten the page, but looking at the state of it, with smudges and flyaway letters, Peter suspects that’s not how Stiles operates. He very much gets the impression of someone who, when they stumble or mis-step, moves forward regardless. He’s read the letter a dozen times, and he’s still not sure if he’s insulted or touched by the fact that it obviously hadn’t occurred to the boy that Peter might take the comment as a reference to his deficiencies, and had hurried to remedy his mistake once he’d realized.

He sighs and continues reading.

_Regarding the matter of our names, I cannot help but feel it would be a disservice to butlers everywhere if they were forced to announce us as ‘Lord and Lord Hale-Stilinski’ or worse yet, “Stilinski-Hale”. We shall keep the Hale name, if that is agreeable, for I suspect you are more attached to it than I am to mine, though my father frowns to hear me say it._

_Just think of the amount we shall save on calling cards by not paying for the half bottle of ink required to write Stilinski._

_I jest, of course. I promise our finances are enough that we could have every card say “Lords Peter and Stiles Stilinski-Hale and their assorted menagerie” and we would barely dent our bank balance. ( Rest assured, I'm aware it's considered common to talk openly of money, but as we are married it seems foolish to tiptoe around the matter.)_

It's something Peter hadn't expected, for Stiles to take his name - it could have gone either way, and he'd resigned himself to becoming a Stilinski, but instead Stiles has shown him this small consideration, one that he finds touching. Peter smiles to himself. Stiles is, indeed, trampling all over social niceties, but at least he's entertaining. Peter’s not sure yet if it’s born of intelligence or idiocy. He hopes desperately for the former.

_I understand you will arrive this Thursday in time for luncheon, and if you would be so kind as to forward your preferences, I shall be sure to have the cook prepare something to your liking._

It’s a gesture of kindness, and it makes Peter squirm, because he has not, to date, forwarded either his preferences or himself- has not replied to Stiles's letter at all in fact - and for the first time, he thinks of a young man waiting patiently by the door, luncheon prepared, for a coach that never comes.

He folds the letter and stuffs it in the drawer. He doesn’t need to read the last paragraph, has it committed to memory.

_At the risk of seeming forward, I wish to offer my gratitude for agreeing to marry me sight unseen. I feel I have the advantage, having met you once several years ago, though I doubt you recall. I found you pleasant company, and I have great hopes that we shall find each other agreeable, and that in time this may deepen to genuine affection. I am aware that I am considered an odd duck by many, but it is my profoundest hope that this duck can find a place in your heart alongside your peacocks._

_Warmest regards,_

_Stiles._

It’s obvious Stiles wants this to be a real marriage. He’s revealed far more than he possibly intended in his letter, and Peter’s struck with fresh guilt at having ignored him, without even a decent excuse. Talia’s sent vague apologies for each time Peter's failed to make the trip, and now that he has the mental image of a young man standing at the end of a driveway peering hopefully into the distance, Peter can’t shake it. He has a sudden fear that he’s acted like the worst sort of cad.

His musings are interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell. Peter listens but doesn’t hear anyone making any move to answer it, so he resigns himself to opening the door himself. He’s greeted with a stone-faced servant. “For Lord Hale from Lord Stilinski” the man says, holding out a letter.

Peter takes it, but the man makes no move to leave. “I'm required to wait for a reply, M’lord.” 

“Very well. Go and wait in the kitchens,” Peter says. It’s a good hour's ride to Beacon Hall, and he knows the man will appreciate the chance to rest before his return journey. The man gives a stiff bow and walks in the direction of the service entrance around the back of the house, and Peter walks back inside and opens his letter, looking forwards to seeing what Stiles has to say this time. He vaguely hopes it’s more interesting foolishness about newts.

This letter though, contains no foolishness, nor warmth of any kind.

The letter is an accusation, nothing more and nothing less, and Peter’s heart sinks as he reads it.

_Lord Hale,_

_I trust this letter finds you well, although your continued absence forces me to the conclusion that you are in dire ill health, for what other reason could there possibly be for your repeated failure to keep your word and travel to Beacon Hall as promised? It has been a month, and your sister offers your excuses, but they are flimsy at best and insulting at worst - i_ _f you would lie to me, you could at least put some thought into it._

_My father is of the opinion that you must be a scoundrel and I should set aside our sham of a marriage before I become involved, and I fear he may be right._

_Before I inform Lady Talia of my intention to dissolve the marriage however, I would ask that you answer one question. Did you ever intend to take your place as my husband? Or was this a joke to you this whole time?_

_If so, it was in poor taste and amusing to none but yourself._

_It is a shameful thing, to be a married man whose husband has no regard for him. I hope you are proud, for you have made me a laughingstock._

_I expected better from you, Lord Hale. I thought I had married a decent man. It seems I was mistaken._

_I might be new money, but at least I am a man of my word. I have been patient thus far, but I would ask that you do me the courtesy of making clear your intentions._

_Please send word back with Davis, for I tire of dangling on the string of your whims._

_Regards,_

_M Stilinski._

A lump forms in Peter’s throat. The letter screams of hurt and confusion, and Peter curses. Talia will never forgive him if the marriage is dissolved, and Peter has the chilling realization that quite apart from the money, his stubbornness might have cost him his one chance at, if not wedded bliss, at least a suitable companion.

He finds that he’s screwed the letter up into a crumpled ball, hands fisted at his side. He smooths it out and reads it again.

It’s no less accusatory the second time.

Peter‘s forced to acknowledge that while he’s been playing games and dragging his feet, he’s given absolutely no thought as to how it’s affected those around him.

But affected them it has.

The bills are unpaid, the cook is due her wages, there is no coal, and now Lord Stilinski thinks him a scoundrel. Peter groans and rubs a hand down his face.

He racks his brain for something he can do by way of apology, a gesture to convince Stiles that he intends to follow through on his commitment. He walks the length of the house and tries to think of a suitable gift, something he can send to assure Stiles that he was sincere in his acceptance. That he wasn’t the one who accepted the offer is hardly Stiles’s fault, and it strikes Peter belatedly that he’s been punishing Stiles for Talia’s actions.

He’s made a terrible mess, and now he needs to fix it.

He strides into the office and after a moment’s thought, he hastily scrawls a reply in a notebook, tears it out and stuffs it in an envelope. He doesn’t have the patience required for letterheads, penmanship or sealing wax, driven by a need to address his failings as soon as he possibly can. It's as he's tucking the flap into the envelope that inspiration strikes, and he strides down to the kitchen to find Davis. “I need to run an errand. I’ll be back shortly and you can take my reply to Lord Stilinski,” Peter tells him. The man stares at him impassively, and Peter feels compelled to add, “I need to fetch him a wedding gift.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the man’s look of approval as he says, ”Very well, M’ lord.”

Peter knows exactly what to send to get back in Stiles’s good graces. He fetches his mount and rides over to see the Misses Martin, hoping against hope that they'll be able to help him, or at least steer him in the right direction to acquire what he needs. He humbly admits to Miss Lydia that he’s made a terrible hash of things with his new husband, and needs to make up for it. Her expression leaves him in no doubt she thinks him an idiot, but when he tells her his plan she hums, nods, and beckons for him to follow, and in short order has supplied him with exactly what he needs from her private menagerie.

She fixes hm with a stare as she hands over the box. “I’m very fond of Stiles,” she says sternly. “Don’t upset him again, or my boarhounds may find themselves loose in your immediate vicinity.”

Peter nods his understanding, and is oddly comforted by the threat. His new husband must be a decent person at least, to inspire such loyalty from the prickly Miss Martin.

He rides at speed back to Hale Manor and hands Davis the gift and the letter, telling him, “Deliver these, and tell my husband that I shall join him tomorrow, if he’ll still have me.”

He could swear that Davis almost smiles.

* * *

Stiles can’t help but twitch the curtains aside and look, yet again, for Davis. He knows it’s barely been long enough for the man to return, but he’s keyed up and anxious, already doubting the wisdom of his actions.

But he doesn’t think he can take another day of the agony of waiting, another half-hearted note of apology, and he’d woken this morning determined to resolve the matter one way or another. He'd written his letter in a fit of pique, and ordered Davis not to return without a reply from Lord Peter himself.

He can’t fathom what possible reason Lord Hale would have to accept his proposal and then renege, unless it was a cruel jape. The thought doesn’t sit right, not with what he knows of the man, but then, Stiles reminds himself, he’s spoken to Peter once, so how much does he really know of his character?

He told Davis not to leave without a reply, but that just means the longer he waits on his return, the longer he’s convinced it’s because Talia’s arranging the dissolution of the union. His father’s out for the day, so Stiles can’t even turn to him for reassurance, and the servants scuttle about like mice and would no sooner give him an honest opinion than grow wings and fly.

Perhaps it was that line in the first letter about regrowing skin and bones, he reflects wretchedly. Maybe Peter took it as an insult, an implication that Stiles wishes he weren’t scarred. Stiles didn’t think it was readable after he scratched it out, but the more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced that he’s hit a sore point, and Peter simply doesn’t want to be married to someone so insensitive.

He throws himself onto the daybed with a groan. The waiting is interminable. Perhaps he’ll visit his newts. He finds his collection undeniably soothing, can lose himself for hours watching them with their unpredictable movements and strange little faces.

Yes, he decides. He’ll wait in the conservatory, where he houses his collection. If it happens to be closest to the front door and afford him a good view of the driveway? That’s coincidence.

It works, after a fashion. He lets one of the tiny lizards roam over the back of his hand and in and out of the sleeve of his dressing gown – he hasn’t even been able to bring himself to dress today, too keyed up – and he’s soon absorbed in its movements, the tickle of soft feet over his skin.

He lifts his head when he hears a horse arriving, but it’s just his father, so he settles back against the chair he’s lounging in and goes back to watching Arthur, the newt in question, climb his sleeve.

His father pokes his head in the door, takes in his face, and says, “Oh, son.” He steps into the room. “No word?”

“I sent him a letter,” Stiles confesses. “I demanded an explanation and told Davis to bring the reply, and now I am on edge as I wait.” He sighs.

The Viscount lays a comforting hand on Stiles’s shoulder. “Shall I have him shot? It can be arranged.”

Stiles snorts unattractively. “Not quite yet. We’ll see what he has to say before we arrange a hunting accident.”

The corner of his father’s mouth twitches up at that. “Let me know.” He hesitates. “You’re a good catch, Stiles, and he’d be mad to reject you.”

Stiles warms a little inside, and he allows himself a small smile. “Maybe he is mad. The man does keep peacocks, after all.”

His father nods pointedly at Arthur and raises an eyebrow. Stiles chooses to ignore it.

Its then that they hear hooves on the gravel, and Stiles sees that it’s Davis. He’s on his feet in a second, Arthur placed back in his enclosure, and then Stiles is scrambling for the front door, flinging it open before Davis has even had a chance to dismount.

When he does dismount it’s with the utmost care, for he’s carrying a small wooden box. “Well?” Stiles demands, barely letting the poor man get both feet on the ground.

Davis wordlessly hands over an envelope. Stiles rips it open, heart in his throat, and pulls out the letter. He can’t quite bring himself to read it though, so he hands it to his father who’s right behind him. “What does he say?”

The viscount clears his throat, is silent for a moment, and says, “You’d best read it yourself, son,” before handing the paper back.

Stiles’s breath catches. He’s been rejected, he knows it, and his father doesn’t want to be the bearer of bad news.

Stiles takes in a lungful of air and exhales it slowly, gathering himself, and then he starts to read.

_My dear Stiles,_

_My deepest apologies for my inexcusably childish behavior. I did not think, absorbed was I was in my own vanity, how the postponements I have inflicted on us would appear to you._

_Please rest assured, I fully intend take my place at your side. I confess that I have delayed joining you because I am a bundle of nerves and insecurities not befitting a grown man. I am altered from when you met me last, and I am afraid you will find me a disappointment._

_By way of apology for my actions, I have sent what I hope is a suitable wedding gift with Davis._

_Until we meet,_

_Your husband, Peter._

Stiles blinks at the letter. It’s obviously been written in a hurry, the paper creased and ragged where it’s been torn from a notebook, and that more than anything convinces him of Peter’s sincerity. This isn’t a carefully crafted missive – this comes from the heart. He bites his lip, reads it again, lets it sink in.

Peter’s coming.

There’s the sound of a throat clearing, and Davis says, “My Lord?” and holds the box out rather gingerly. “Lord Hale said to tell you that he would be here tomorrow, and that you would do best not to open this outdoors.”

Stiles takes the box, curious. It’s light, and there are air holes in the top. He fights the urge to take a peek, because if its what he thinks it is, Peter’s right and the contents will scatter.

He carries it carefully inside, into the conservatory, and sets the box on a table, gently easing it open the barest inch.

Four wide eyes blink at him. Stiles opens the lid further, and the screech he lets out has his father running into the room. “Stiles? What’s wrong?”

 _“He sent newts!“_ Stiles exclaims, overwhelmed. 

“He sent _what?_ ”

He turns to his father, grinning. “Newts! Not just any newts - great crested newts! The rarest of them all! And he’s coming tomorrow!”

His father shakes his head in disbelief, but he’s smiling. “So I take it he’s forgiven, then?”

Stiles nods happily, the relief at not being rejected flooding through him. “Davis!” he calls. “Take a message back to my husband,” he says, relishing the feel of the word in his mouth.

Davis suppresses a sigh, but simply says, “Yes, M’lord.”

Stiles scribbles out a note and hands it to him. “There’s no need to wait for a reply, and when you get back you can have the rest of the day off,” Stiles says, because he really does appreciate the man’s efforts.

Davis brightens. “Thank you, m’lord!”

Stiles is still grinning as he watches him go.

* * *

Peter’s busy packing when he hears the horse approaching, and he frowns when he sees it’s Stiles’s manservant. Perhaps he was too late with his apology, and Stiles has thought better of his offer. Maybe Laura will end up marrying Mr Greenberg and his night-soil fortune after all. 

He trudges to the door and opens it and the man hands him a letter silently.

Peter doesn’t bother to go inside before tearing it open. He reads it, and relief courses through him. He reads it a second time and starts to laugh. Davis stands there, impassive, while Peter’s mirth overcomes him, until finally he’s able to speak. “Tell Stiles I shall bring both with me tomorrow,” he says, still chuckling.

Talia comes up behind him. “Peter? What on earth?”

She snatches the note and reads it, brow furrowed. “This makes no sense.”

“Not without context,” Peter agrees, and strides way, not giving her any. Talia has been out all morning and has no knowledge of what’s transpired today, and it might be petty, but Peter has no intention of telling her. Not being privy to the day’s events will drive Talia to distraction, he knows. He can’t help but feel she deserves it.

He whistles as he climbs the stairs to him rooms and continues packing, stopping every now and then to read the contents of the note.

_Lord Hale,_

_If you think two newts will gain my favor, you are sadly mistaken. It will take at least one of your peacocks and a chocolate gateau, husband._ _I look forwards to our meeting._

_Fondest regards ,_

_Stiles._

Peter smiles again, and wonders how, exactly, one goes about transporting a peacock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lords Hale finally meet.

Peter takes in the sight of Beacon Hall out of the window of his carriage and tries to still the squirming in his guts that threatens to overtake his whole being. He’s not sure whether it’s fear or nervous excitement, but neither are acceptable in his opinion.

This will be fine, he tells himself sternly. If anyone should be nervous it’s Stiles – he’s the one married to a man ten years his elder and flawed to boot.

Talia had threatened to come along to ensure Peter kept his word and actually went to join his husband, but Peter had brushed her aside saying, “No offence, my dear, but I daresay the new Lord Hale shall want to ravage me on sight, and that will just lead to awkwardness if you’re in the room.”

He still hasn’t forgiven her for the way she manipulated him, and he’s not sure he will – if she’d come to him and told him plainly how bad things were, and that Laura didn’t want to marry Greenberg, it was quite possible that Peter would have agreed to the union without being shanghaied like a drunken sailor, and he would at least have retained his dignity, had the illusion of choice.

Still, he reflects, he’s out from under her control now, and he plans to keep it that way. Assuming Stiles doesn’t turn out to be a simpleton (and his letters indicate he most decidedly isn’t), Peter could, conceivably, have a good life here.

They’re approaching Beacon Hall's long, tree-lined driveway when they slow down and then stop completely. Peter’s just about to open the door and see what the delay is when it opens and a man swings easily into the coach and plops himself in the seat opposite Peter. There’s a split second where he fears a robbery, but then he catches sight of the man’s features.

It’s Viscount Stilinski.

Peter’s wonders briefly if a robbery might not have been preferable, because he’s fairly sure his new father in law hasn‘t boarded the coach in order to offer his congratulations. The Viscount leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “Lord Hale.”

“Call me Peter, please.”

The Viscount gives a tiny nod. “I apologize for waylaying your coachman, but as we speak, my son is pacing back and forth in a lather of excitement at your imminent arrival, and I would have a word in private first.” Peter waits for the scolding he deserves, but the Viscount sighs and sits back. “I always thought you a decent man. It’s why I suggested to Stiles that he court you in the first place. I was aware of your family’s…situation, and I had hoped that you and he might get along.”

“I remember your son, and from his letters he is charming,” Peter says, just to have something to say.

“Not charming enough to join him, however,” John says archly.

Peter opens his mouth to speak but he’s interrupted by a raucous screech. John cringes, hands covering his ears. “By all that’s holy, what was _that?_ ”

“That’s Stiles’ peacock.”

John tilts his head, puzzled. “Since when does Stiles have a peacock?”

“Since he demanded one in apology for my atrocious behavior.”

John bites his lip. “My son asked you for a peacock, and you brought him one?”

Peter shrugs. “I felt I should try and prove that I’m a man of my word.” He gestures to the box next to him on the seat. “There’s a gateau in there as well, because he informed me that he required a peacock and a chocolate gateau in order for me to be in his good graces, and I do so desire to be in his good graces, John. I acted badly with no consideration for Stiles or his feelings, and I’m trying my best to make amends.” He meet’s John’s gaze, and with all the sincerity he can muster says, “It’s my greatest wish that we can move forward, for I suspect that your instincts were right, and that Stiles and I could be happy, if I can just stop acting like a selfish dolt.”

John’s stern expression softens, just the slightest bit. “You’ll do, Hale. And the newts were an excellent wedding gift. But be aware - I might be nobility now, but I have not forgotten what I learned in the king’s guard. Treat my son badly again and you won’t see me coming.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Is that a threat?”

John Stilinski gives him a dangerous smile. “Absolutely not. It’s a promise.” And then the door swings open, he leaps out effortlessly, and the coach is moving again.

* * *

Stiles’s peacock, encased in a linen bag to prevent damage to its feathers and housed in a wicker basket on the back of the coach, continues to shriek for the remainder of the ride, making its displeasure known.

Peter intends to have the rest of his peacocks delivered later, even though he only started keeping them to annoy Talia. She brought it on herself, really. She purchased one of the birds as a gift, mockingly saying that with its arrogant strut and showy nature it reminded her of Peter.

Unfortunately for her, she hadn’t been aware that the beasts shrieked, and after the first week of shrill cries rending the night air, she’d been on the verge of developing a most unattractive nervous tic, and had demanded that Peter get rid of the offending creature.

Peter had cheerfully refused, feigned affection for the bird, and purchased another four on principle. He’s quite fond of them now, and mostly deaf to their cries in the night. He finds them breathtakingly beautiful, and like all beautiful things, they are forgiven a multitude of sins.

He hopes Stiles realizes that the birds scream, but he suspects Stiles will have made it his business to know anything and everything about peacocks. He seems like that type.

The coach draws to a halt, and Peter’s earlier nervousness returns in full force when the door to the manor opens and Stiles steps out hesitantly. Peter takes a moment to assess his husband while he waits for the coachman to open his door.

He’s taller than Peter remembers, broad across the shoulders, and his face has lost that trace of boyishness that it still bore when Peter last saw him. His hair’s sticking up in all directions like he’s been running his hands through it, but otherwise he’s grown into a fine, handsome young man, far too good for the likes of Peter. His whiskey-brown eyes are wide, and he’s staring at Peter through the coach window, biting his bottom lip in either nerves or anticipation.

When the door opens, Peter steps out and advances rapidly, not daring to slow his strides until he’s face to face with his new husband, lest his nerves get the better of him and he retreat back into the coach. His cravat’s pulled high to cover the tight, shiny patches of marred skin. He’d toyed with the idea of an open collar, of showing his scars and acknowledging them, but it turned out he wasn’t quite brave enough to force their existence on his husband when they haven’t even had a hello.

“Lord Hale,” Stiles says, his smile fragile. “I’m so glad you could join us, finally.”

Peter’s not sure if Stiles is taking a jab at him or if it’s an innocent comment.

If Stiles _is_ taking a jab, Peter knows he deserves it. And he could ignore the subtle reproach, but instead he lifts Stiles’s hand and brushes his lips across the back of it, a barely there kiss. “Husband. I’m so glad I was finally able to extract my vain, self-obsessed head from my arse long enough to find my way to your side.”

Stiles’s mouth drops open, his eyes widen, and then he throws his head back and laughs, and the tension between them dissolves. “You did _not_ just say that!” Stiles exclaims, once he’s stopped snickering.

Peter gives him a rueful smile. “I speak only the truth, I’m afraid. I pray that you will accept my apologies for both my terrible behavior and my delay in honouring my commitment to join you, and allow us to start afresh?”

Stiles’s smiles softens, becomes more real somehow. “I accept your apology. A fresh start sounds like an excellent idea. Shall we?” He extends a hand towards the door in invitation.

Peter glances back at the coach. “One moment.” He dashes back and extracts the cake box that has accompanied him on the trip, then presents it to Stiles with a flourish. “One chocolate gateau. And I have your peacock, though I feel it’s best if we have it released into the grounds. They’re dreadfully messy beasts.”

Stiles’s smile widens with disbelief. “You really brought a gateau and a peacock? I was jesting!”

Peter gives a tiny bow. “I’m a man of my word, husband.”

Stiles lets out a disbelieving chuckle, takes the cake box, and leads them inside.

* * *

Once they’re in the front door, Stiles pauses and extends a hand, cheeks pink. Peter slips his hand into Stiles’s and is rewarded with a bright smile. Peter can tell immediately that Stiles wasn’t born into this – the proper etiquette would be for Peter to meet the members of staff as they lined up for his inspection, and then be given a guided tour of the house and grounds. Instead though, Stiles barrels into the kitchen and hands the box off to the cook without stopping for introductions, and then leads Peter straight to the conservatory, where he almost drags him over to a glass tank in the corner. “They’ve settled in already, aren’t they lovely?” he breathes out, face almost pressed against the glass.

Peter peers into the tank and sees the newts he sent. He makes a clucking noise with his tongue, though he couldn’t tell you why. Stiles opens the lid and reaches inside. “Did you want to hold one?”

Peter’s never held a newt before, but he’s not averse to the idea, so he extends a hand and is greeted with a tiny, cool body that tickles his palm and wide, curious eyes staring at him. “He's lovely,” he agrees, and reaches out a finger to stroke the tiny thing gently. “I never knew newts could be so pretty.”

“Technically they’re efts, because they’re still juveniles. Where did you get them from?” Stiles asks.

“Miss Martin did me a great favour.”

Stiles’s eyes widen, and his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “Wait till I see her! I’ve been pleading for a pair of great cresteds forever, and she’s always refused. Why on earth would she give them to you?”

Peter gives a small smile. “I’m very persuasive.” At Stiles’s disbelieving expression he sighs and admits, “She wasn’t at all inclined to help me until I told her they were for you. I believe her exact words were, ‘Well if it’s for _Stiles.’_ And then she threatened me with her boarhounds if I upset you again. She’s very fond of you, apparently.”

Stiles grins at that, then relieves Peter of his newt and pops it back into the tank. “Would you like to see the rest of them?”

“Absolutely,” Peter says, and it pleases him more than he had thought to see his new husband’s enthusiasm. 

The spend at least an hour in the conservatory, Stiles talking animatedly about his pets and their habits and Peter asking questions and being permitted to handle the little creatures. In truth, he can see why Stiles finds them fascinating. Their rounded eyes and wide mouths give them the appearance of a badly executed child’s drawing, but they’re endearing all the same, coming in all colours of the rainbow.

It’s not only the newts that Peter is drawn to. Everything about Stiles is enchanting -the way he laughs, the way his elegant hands flutter while he talks, the intelligence in his eyes, a pair of eminently kissable lips – Peter finds himself becoming more enamoured of his new husband by the second. He could sit here for hours listening to him, watching him.

But Peter rose before dawn, and it’s warm in the conservatory, and eventually he finds his eyelids slipping closed. Stiles sees, and trails off mid-sentence, brows furrowed. He stumbles out an apology. “I’m so sorry, I must be boring you.” His shoulders slump, and Peter gets the impression this isn’t the first time Stiles’s enthusiasm has gotten away from him.

Peter yawns again, standing and stretching. “Apologies, Stiles. But it’s been a terribly long morning, and I find myself weary from my travels. Can I trouble you for directions to the facilities? I’d like to freshen up.”

“Freshen - oh!” Stiles’s eyes go wide with understanding. “I’ll show you where everything is, and take you to your room. I really am an awful host,” he sighs, and Peter fights the urge to pull the boy into his lap and stroke his hair and tell him he’s wonderful.

He settles for placing one hand atop Stiles’s and giving a gentle squeeze. “Stiles, it’s fine. And I really do like your newts. I promise I’m fascinated by the thirty four mating habits of the great crested – in fact, I believe Miss Martin mentioned a thirty-fifth, and I’d love to discuss it further, once I’m fit company.”

Stiles brightens up at that, and in short order he leads Peter upstairs, shows him where the amenities are, and then leads him to a perfectly acceptable but obviously unused bedroom. “I’ll send up your bags and have the kitchen bring a tray, then leave you to rest, for I daresay you have had quite the day and need a break from my chatter.”

Peter’s momentarily confused – he’d assumed they’d be sharing a room, what with Stiles not have been brought up in nobility, but perhaps Stiles is still upset with him and has exiled him? Or perhaps Stiles has chosen the traditional upper-class route of separate rooms? He turns to ask Stiles, but he’s disappeared back down the stairs.

Peter makes use of the facilities, and then returns to his room. He arrives at the same time as Davis, who’s carrying his bags. Peter takes the opportunity to ask him, “Davis, where are Stiles’s rooms?”

Davis nods at a door that Peter had failed to notice. “Through there, M’Lord.” Peter walks over and checks the door and is more than a little relieved to find it unlocked. Not exile then, just tradition. Davis clears his throat. “Would you like me to unpack, m’lord?” he asks.

“Perhaps later.”

Davis nods and takes his leave, and Peter takes a moment to revel in having staff again. He’s missed it, having someone to see to his needs. His appreciation only grows when moments later a young girl appears with a tray holding a pot of tea and a selection of finger sandwiches.

Once he’s eaten, Peter sits on edge of the bed. The mattress seems acceptable, and he tugs at his boots and sets them to one side, intending to stretch out just for a moment to test the firmness. Once he’s laying down though, he finds his eyes closing again almost of their own accord, and he’s not inclined to fight his tiredness.

But he’s still warm from sitting in the heat of the conservatory, so he sits up long enough to remove his jacket and waistcoat, and after a moment of consideration he loosens his cravat and undoes the top few buttons of his shirt as well. He stretches like a cat, relishing the freedom from the constriction of all his layers, and smiles to himself.

So far, things are going well. His husband has shown himself to be as intelligent and charming as his letter indicated, and here, fed and comfortable and inclined to doze, Peter can barely recall why he shilly-shallied around at all. But then he runs a hand unconsciously down his face, feels the barest ridge of scar tissue along his jaw, and remembers all over again.

He has yet to address his disfigurement.

He pushes down the flutter of panic that tries to make itself known. Stiles is aware, he reminds himself firmly. No deception is at play here. The viscount has seen Peter’s marks, and surely the man would not have suggested the match if he thought his son would be repulsed.

Peter sighs and closes his eyes. For now he decides, he’ll rest, and worry about everything else after. As he slips into sleep, he hears the scream of a peacock. 

It reminds him of home.

* * *

Stiles can’t keep the grin off his face. His husband is here. Peter _came_ , and he’s _here._

Lord Hale is just as handsome as Stiles recalls him being, with startlingly blue eyes and a debonair smile, and it had been easy to forgive him when he’d seemed so genuine in his apologies. Stiles believes himself a good judge of character, and he’s chosen to believe that Lord Hale is sincere- after all, he’s here isn’t he?

Stiles will admit that he spent the morning beset by doubt, half-expecting there to be no carriage and no excuse, and his excitement had warred with a caution born of prior disappointment. But finally, his husband had turned up, bearing cake and a peacock and heartfelt apologies, saying he wanted a fresh start.

And when Stiles had dragged him to see his newts, Peter hadn’t seemed like he was humouring Stiles with his interest. No, he’d appeared genuinely taken with Stiles’s pets, asked intelligent questions, and hadn’t shied from holding them at all. While they’d talked, Stiles had taken the opportunity to observe his husband, and he’d been delighted to discover that Peter was both witty and charming, just as he remembered.

Of course, Stiles had nearly ruined it all in his enthusiasm. It hadn’t crossed his mind that his husband might be taxed from his journey until he’d let slip a yawn, and at first Stiles had been quietly mortified, assuming Peter was bored, but Peter had assured him he was just tired. It was then that it occurred to Stiles that he’d been a terrible host, not offering so much as a glass of water, and neither had anyone else, because he’d strictly instructed the servants that they were to be left in peace.

Still, Peter hadn’t seemed to mind, Stiles had corrected his oversight, and now he’s left Peter upstairs to settle into his new rooms, and he doesn’t feel their meeting has gone too badly, all things considered. He’d been tempted to hover, but it would have been rude.

He’d also been tempted to sail right on by the doors of Peter’s rooms and lead him into his own, but his housekeeper had been quite firm that a gentlemen of Lord Hale’s standing would expect his own suite of rooms. He’d attempted to sulk, but she’d informed him that Lord Hale’s rooms were adjoining to his own, as was proper, and that he wasn't the son of a guardsman now and had best learn the way things were done.

Stiles had been relieved to know that at least he wouldn’t have to traipse the length of the house to find his spouse. He’s aware some couples prefer it that way, that Lydia’s parents have it arranged so that they can go days without encountering each other, but that isn’t what Stiles wants.

It still strikes him as odd, having separate rooms. He wonders idly if maybe once they know each other better, Peter will be amenable to flouting the rules.

From what Stiles has seen of him, he seems the type to flout.

It’s only natural that Stiles’s thoughts turn from sleeping arrangements to the bedroom, really. His stomach flutters as he contemplates what will happen tonight, for he knows what’s expected. It’s their first night together, and he has no doubt that Lord Hale will wish to bed him. Stiles isn’t averse to the idea at all, it’s just that he has no earthly clue what to do.

Oh, he knows the _theory_ , yes. But Stiles has never been romantically inclined, never had anyone to do… _that_ with. The only person he’d possibly trust that much is Miss Martin, and their friendship doesn’t incline that way, so Stiles is, to all intents and purposes, an innocent. He just hopes that Peter has enough experience for both of them, and that it goes more smoothly than the rest of their marriage so far.

He’s startled out of his musings by a raucous screech from somewhere in the grounds, and he remembers with a start – he has a peacock! He’s always wanted one, despite their awful reputation, and Peter delivered. He stands and strides out into the grounds to seek the bird out. It will keep him distracted until Peter comes downstairs, at least.

He follows the noise to its source to find his father standing in the grounds, hands on hips, engaged in a staring contest with the peacock. The bird appears to be winning. His father sighs when he sees him and asks, “A peacock, Stiles? Why would you ask for such a thing?”

“It was a joke! I didn’t think he’d actually turn up with a cake and a peacock.” Even the thought of it has Stiles grinning.

“But he did.”

“He did,” Stiles agrees. “He finally came.”

“And?” Stiles knows what his father’s asking.

“He apologised, and I’m certain he was sincere,” Stiles says. “He asked that we make a fresh start. I really like him, Dad.”

His father drapes an arm over his shoulders and gives a light squeeze. “I’m glad for you. Where is your groom anyway?”

“I -uh- I perhaps neglected to offer him refreshments and he was almost falling asleep, so I took him to his rooms and sent up a tray. He’s resting.”

His father gives a tiny shake of his head. “Of course you did. I suppose you dragged the poor man to see your odd little zoo immediately?”

Stiles drops his eyes. ”Maybe,” he mumbles, and hears his father snort. “But Dad, _he liked the newts_.” It suddenly seems important his father knows that Peter shares his enthusiasm.

His father raises his eyebrows. “Did he _actually_ like them, or is this like that Blake woman who said they were lovely but screamed and leaped ten feet when you offered her the chance to hold Arthur?”

“He actually liked them. We talked, and he held them, and he definitely has a favorite, it’s Guinevere, and he asked about the way the tanks are set up, and when their breeding season is, and I explained that they’re only efts and too young, and he had some ideas about when they get older, says he knows how we can make adjustments, enlarge the enclosure, and-“ he breaks off at his father’s broad smile. “What?”

“He said _we_ ,” his father points out quietly. “It means that he plans to stay, Stiles.”

Stiles can’t help the broad smile that splits his face. “It does, doesn’t it?”

Stiles had confessed to his father only last week that his greatest fear was that he had unwittingly agreed to a union of the type where the lady resides in the country and her husband in the city, never to meet, and that Peter would prove to be an absentee husband. It seems now those fears were groundless.

Stiles is overcome by a desire to see his husband, talk with him, perhaps touch his handsome face. He casts a longing glance at the house, and his father, who has always been able to read his every thought, chuckles. “Perhaps he’s rested long enough?” he suggests. “You could go and wake him.”

Stiles bites his lip. “It’s barely been an hour,” he hedges, suddenly nervous.

“Then he’ll be ready to wake,” his father counters. “You could take him some tea. I’m sure he’d sooner you wake him than one of the maids that he’s never met.”

Stiles really does want to see Peter, so he allows himself to be persuaded. “I really should introduce him to the staff,” he says. “I sort of forgot, before, because – “

“I know. Newts,” his father says, eyes twinkling with merriment. “Go see your husband, Stiles.”

Stiles nods and makes his way back to the house. He doesn’t run, exactly, but it’s a very brisk walk.

* * *

Peter’s a light sleeper – has been ever since the fire – and he comes awake with a start at the light tapping on the door. It takes him a moment to get his bearings, remember that this strange bed is his, and he croaks out a sleep roughened, “Come in,” before he’s even fully awake.

The door opens and Stiles walks in. “Tea?”

Stiles is carrying a tray that he sets down gently on a side table, just as Peter wakes enough to remember that he’s half naked, marred skin exposed, and Stiles will see him, he’ll _see_ him, see how awful his skin is, and Peter was going to explain first, he’s not prepared –

He sits up in bed and clutches at the front of his shirt, pulling it closed in a vain effort to shield himself from Stiles’s gaze, closing his eyes so he doesn’t have to see the look on Stiles’s face. His chest aches with the sting of anticipated rejection as he waits for it, the horrified gasp, the exclamations of disgust, but neither of those things occur.

Instead he feels the mattress dip, and Stiles’s voice is close when he asks, “Peter? Are you all right?”

Peter opens his eyes, finds Stiles perched on the side of the bed. He fumbles at the buttons on his shirt, trying to hide the damage even though it’s too late, but Stiles reaches out and places a hand over his, stilling it, and Peter knows he has been seen. “So now,” Peter sighs, “you see what you have married.”

Stiles swallows, and Peter notes that he barely appears to be paying the scars any mind at all, his gaze fixed instead on Peter’s chest. “I see that I have married a handsome man.”

“A damaged man,” Peter corrects, but the tightness in his chest eases the tiniest bit with every minute that Stiles doesn’t recoil in horror.

“A brave man.” Stiles counters, “who risked his life for his family.” He hesitates. “May I?” His hand flutters close to Peter’s skin, waiting for permission.

Peter nods, and then gentle fingers trace over his skin, but it’s not the scars Stiles is touching, but the other side of his throat. “I have always admired the breadth of your neck,” Stiles confesses, and Peter could swear he blushes the slightest bit. His fingers trail in a soft line and skim over Peter’s collarbone. They linger for a moment, and Peter misses them as soon as they are gone.

“Stiles.” Peter says, unsure what he even means to say.

Stiles barely hesitates before his touch traces over the mess of scars. Peter fights not to flinch, even though he barely feels anything at all. “Your poor throat. Does it pain you?” Stiles asks gently, and Peter hears only tenderness, no trace of rejection. The ache in his chest eases further.

“Not really. It’s tender, sometimes,” he admits. But he knows Stiles must be at least a little put off by his appearance, and is driven by a sudden need to hear him admit it. “Do you find me awful?” he asks bluntly.

Stiles’s face scrunches up as he considers the question, and Peter appreciates that at least the boy doesn’t lie and trot out some platitude about how he doesn’t even notice the scarring, but instead takes time to reply.

“I fell out of tree when I was seven,” he says at last, and _what?_

He’s staring at Peter as if waiting for a response, so Peter manages a “Yes?” while wondering what on earth his odd young husband is talking about.

“When I fell, there was a piece of a broken limb sticking out, and it gouged the back of my thigh,” Stiles continues. “It required stitching.” He holds Peter‘s gaze. “If I were to find you awful, it would make me something of a hypocrite, for I also bear scars. At least yours were acquired nobly, and not as a result of ignoring your mother’s instructions.”

Peter’s not sure what to say to that. Luckily Stiles seems to have words enough for both of them. “If your scars cause you discomfort,” he says, “I have heard tell that an application of aloe sap can be beneficial. Shall we acquire a plant?”

He’s completely sincere, Peter can tell, and the last trace of fear that Stiles would find his appearance unpalatable dissolves like the wisps of smoke from a dying fire. “I would like that,” he says quietly, “if it would not inconvenience you. I could apply the sap myself, if you would rather.”

Stiles is definitely blushing now, but he juts his chin out, and doesn’t remove his hand from where it rests at the base of Peter’s throat, skirting the edge between scarred and unscarred skin. “Please believe me when I say I would find it no hardship at all.”

At hearing Stiles’s frank admission and seeing his pinked cheeks, Peter’s left in no doubt that Stiles really does find him desirable. The relief that had been washing through him changes, transforms into something different, a hunger of the most primal sort. He places his hand atop Stiles’s and gives a tiny squeeze. “I would also count it no hardship to have your hands on me.”

Stiles’s blush intensifies until he’s almost crimson and he ducks his head, biting his bottom lip and making his mouth even more pink and lush than usual. Peter finds his boy’s reaction utterly charming, almost irresistible in fact, and so he gathers his courage and asks, “Stiles, would you mind terribly if I kissed you now?”

Stiles raises his head, and his shy smile is all the answer Peter needs.

Peter leans in and grasps Stiles’s chin in his hand, tilting his head slightly, and the kiss he gives him is a tender little thing, a press of lips, an exchange of breath, but it’s enough for Stiles’s mouth to go lax and open under his touch, and when Peter pulls away, Stiles sighs out, “That was my first kiss, and I think I should like many more.”

Peter chuckles softly. “I think that can be arranged. We are, after all, married.”

Stiles slips off his shoes, sits himself up against the headboard next to Peter, then reaches out tentatively and places a hand on his shoulder, turning to face him. “Could it be arranged now?”

Peter doesn’t reply, just leans in and kisses Stiles again, with a little more conviction this time. It’s obvious that Stiles has never done this before, but Peter coaxes his lips apart with the tip of his tongue, sliding it into Stiles's mouth easily, curling one hand in Stiles’s messy hair in order to tilt his head slightly and relieve the strain on his neck. Stiles lets out a squeak at the intrusion, but he doesn’t pull away, and Peter makes the most of the opportunity presented to him, kissing Stiles soundly until they’re both slightly breathless.

When Peter pulls back this time, Stiles mouth is hanging open, his eyes are dark, and he looks absolutely debauched. Satisfaction curls deep in Peter’s belly at having been the cause of such a thing. He reaches out and runs a fingertip over Stiles’ cheek. “Do you always blush so prettily?”

Stiles squirms. “It’s not pretty. I look like an overboiled beet,” he protests.

“It’s delightful,” Peter counters, “as are you. I am truly lucky to have such a lovely husband.” He can see that Stiles wants to argue further, so he kisses him again before he has a chance. It’s just as lovely as the last time, and Peter feels lust stirring deep within him, making him want to roll them over and pin Stiles beneath him, peel him out of his trousers, and examine his scar and the thigh that bears it. He’s not the only one, if the way Stiles is moaning into his mouth is any indication, and Peter wonders if it would be terribly wicked to take his husband to bed in the middle of the day, what Stiles would say if he asked such a thing. He suspects the answer might be yes.

His speculations are cut short by a sharp rap on the door. “Stiles, are you in there?” comes the Viscount’s voice.

Stiles rears back with a speed that’s almost insulting and rubs a hand over the back of his mouth. “Dad!” he squawks, sounding like Peter’s peacock, “don’t come in!”

There’s a deep chuckle. “Relax. I’m just letting you know that Mrs Bailey’s made a special effort with the afternoon refreshments on account of Peter’s arrival, and you’d both better be there to appreciate it.”

 _Mrs Bailey?_ Peter mouths, feeling an unaccountable need to stay quiet, even though he’s in his own rooms.

Stiles flaps a hand at him, and calls, “How long until we’re expected?”

“Perhaps quarter of an hour, son.”

“Thanks!” Stiles says, and then they hear the heavy tread of retreating footsteps. Stiles turns and gives Peter a small shrug. “Mrs Bailey is the housekeeper. She’s older than god and twice as terrifying and feels it her duty to school me in the proper way of doing things. We dare not be late to tea, which is a shame, because I liked what we were doing.”

“As did I,” Peter sighs, and mourns his lost opportunity at the same time as welcoming the news that Stiles shared his enjoyment. He sits up on the side of the bed and stretches, before standing and buttoning his shirt, and he doesn’t miss the way Stiles’s eyes follow the movements of his fingers.

“About your rooms,” Stiles says.

“They’re quite acceptable, thank you.”

“No, that’s not –“ Stiles gives a small huff. “I didn’t grow up in the peerage, so it seems strange to me for you to have your own suite, but Mrs Bailey assured me that it’s only proper, and I was not brave enough to cross her.”

Peter smiles in understanding, pleased that the mystery, such as it was, has been solved. “I think it’s the domain of housekeepers everywhere to terrify their charges. Thank you for explaining.”

Stiles gives a rueful smile. “It may be that I am still a commoner at heart, but I would have liked for us to share a suite. Perhaps…” he hesitates, twisting a corner of bedsheet between his fingers, and Peter feels an overwhelming urge to rescue him from his own embarrassment.

“Shall we share, and not tell your frightening housekeeper?” he suggests.

Stiles breath leaves him in a rush, and he blushes to the tops of his ears. It’s adorable, and it makes Peter want to kiss him all over again. _Later_ , he tells himself.

After all, they have all the time in the world.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys get their happily ever after.

Peter winces and lets out a soft curse as their carriage hits a bump in the road. It’s all Stiles’s fault. Peter _knew_ he shouldn’t have let the boy have his arse this morning, not with the journey ahead of them, but Stiles had pleaded so prettily, and his eyes were so wide and his clever fingers so persuasive that Peter hadn’t been able to resist, and now he’s paying the price - he’ll be tender all the way to Hale Manor.

Stiles smirks, eyes bright with mischief, like he knows what he’s done and he isn’t the slightest bit sorry about it. He probably isn’t. Peter isn’t either, if he’s honest.

It took some time for them to reach that place of intimacy, for Stiles was as green as the rolling lawns of the manor and Peter wasn’t, in all honesty, much better – he’d had a few assignations, but nothing of substance, just fumbling hands and one memorable mouth, and he’d had to haltingly confess to Stiles that really, he wasn’t nearly as experienced as people assumed he was.

He’d thought that perhaps Stiles would judge him for it, but Stiles had looked absolutely delighted at the news, confessing that it took a weight off his shoulders, not being alone in his inexperience. "Now,” he’d said with a grin, “I don’t need to worry that I’ve got it wrong, and we can have fun figuring it out together.”

And they had.

That first week was a delightful series of nights spent with hands slipping under nightgowns, tender kisses, licks to pert nipples, gasped out cries of surprise at a hot mouth on a cock, and it had all been wonderful.

They’d spent their second evening together doing nothing but looking at each other naked, running their hands all over each other's skin, and Peter had gotten to see Stiles’s scar – it truly is impressive, with the way it twists up the back of his leg. Stiles had turned his head to look over his shoulder and scrunched up his face when Peter ran a hand down it. “Is it awful?”

“I find it doesn’t hold my attention,” Peter had replied, sliding his hand back up and cupping the deliciously pert backside that was right there in front of him. “I am distracted by the beauty of the rest of you.”

Stiles had grinned. “You should know I feel the same about your imperfections. The rest of you is lovely, so I pay them no mind.” And Peter had known in that moment that Stiles spoke the truth. This was how Stiles felt about Peter’s scars- they existed, but were not worthy of attention in their own right.

It had bolstered his confidence enough that he’d flipped his young husband over and put his mouth on him, even though he’d never done such a thing before. The way Stiles reacted, however, quickly made it one of Peter’s favorite new pastimes – Stiles falling apart was a joy to behold.

And then Peter had come to bed one night two weeks after his arrival and found Stiles waiting for him naked, holding out a vial of oil and blushing in the soft candlelight.

Peter had faltered for just a moment, but Stiles had whispered that he wanted to try, and try they had. It took some trial and error - they spilled the oil, and there were quite a few pauses and deep breaths - but they got there, Peter considerate almost to a fault in the way he attended to his lover’s preparations. It had been glorious, over almost as soon as it began, but completely satisfying.

Afterwards, Stiles had snickered into the sheets, and when Peter had prodded at him in silent enquiry he’d said, “The bedsheets are a mess of oil and seed, and I’m imagining Mrs Bailey’s face when she discovers it.”

“Mrs Bailey can go boil her head,” Peter had mumbled, which led to Stiles cackling in fits of laughter. Peter had joined in, holding his husband close and marveling that his life had somehow turned out to be so utterly wonderful.

Of course, once they’d figured out what they were doing, well. Stiles always had been one to follow his interests to the point on obsession, and this was no different. He was enthusiastic and shameless, (although in fairness so was Peter), and there was no time or place where Stiles wouldn’t tug at Peter’s hand and incline his head upstairs, and Peter would drop whatever he was doing and follow him eagerly. Sometimes it’s Peter who leads them upstairs, and Stiles who does the following.

It’s an equal partnership in every sense of the word.

Stiles’s enthusiasm for lovemaking at every opportunity is part of the reason why they’re on their way to Hale Manor (although the official reason is to collect his peacocks.) They’re going so Peter can poach his old housekeeper from Talia, after the incident that led to Mrs Bailey giving her notice.

In Peter’s defense, they truly had thought the house was empty – the servants had been given the day off to attend a local fair. (Stiles, Peter discovered later, had _specifically_ given them the day off because he’d wanted to suck Peter off in the dining room.) How were they to know Mrs Bailey would choose to stay back and do the accounts, or that she’d come to investigate the noises she heard?

If they’d known _that_ , they wouldn’t have done what they did where they did it, and she wouldn’t have walked in to find Peter’s bare arse perched on the edge of the mahogany table with Stiles on his knees in front of him, Peter’s cock in his mouth as he happily engaged in what Mrs Bailey later described to John as ‘an indecent act.’

She’d fled screeching, tracked the Viscount down in the grounds, blurted out what she’d seen and handed in her resignation on the spot.

John had refused to look either of them in the eye or speak to them over dinner, and the next morning had left on urgent business that kept him away for a week - the amount of time, Peter assumes, that it took him to recover.

(A new table had also been delivered the next day. Peter arranged for the old one to be shipped to Talia.)

Peter smiles at the recollection of that afternoon. It had ended disastrously but it’s still a treasured memory, because that was the day he came to realize that he’d fallen in love with his inappropriate, reckless, wonderful husband.

He glances up to find Stiles watching him, still grinning and looking far too pleased with himself. “Penny for your thoughts, husband?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “I was just wondering what my sister will say when we steal her staff.”

Stiles snorts. “She deserves it, marrying you off while you were drunk.”

For of course it had come to light what Talia had done. Peter had made an unthinking remark and Stiles had retreated, hurt, and spent a good hour locked in his conservatory, devastated that Peter really hadn’t wanted to marry him and horrified that he was here against his will. But Peter had persisted in his entreaties for Stiles to unlock the door, assuring him that although he would never tell his sister so, he was blissfully happy, and once Stiles let him in, proving his words with soft kisses and an impassioned embrace that led, once more, to the bedroom. By the time Peter was done with him, Stiles was in no doubt that Peter was exactly where he wanted to be.

Still. They both agreed afterwards that while it had all worked out in the end, Talia had been in the wrong. It was Stiles who suggested they steal her housekeeper as petty revenge. Peter thinks it’s a stroke of genius.

Peter stretches and his shoulder muscles give a twinge, but it’s not from their pursuits this morning. This is different - it’s the welcome ache one gets from honest work willingly undertaken. He and John have spent the last week and a half assisting the laborers on the estate in erecting an enclosure for the peacocks. John had seemed surprised at first when Peter had turned up in an old shirt and work boots, but Peter’s always liked being outdoors and working with his hands – it’s one of the things Talia chided him for. But John had simply tilted his head, and after a few seconds he’d nodded his approval, handed Peter a shovel, and told him where to dig.

Stiles had come along to observe the building process, although Peter suspects he was mainly there to ogle him in his shirtsleeves. When Peter stripped down to his undershirt when he became overwarm from working, Stiles’s eyes had widened, and not five minutes later he was stammering out that he needed to talk to his husband in private _right now_ , and Peter had found himself dragged upstairs and thoroughly ravaged, much to his glee.

There’s a freedom in how John and Stiles pay his scars no mind, the way nobody in his new household gives Peter’s throat a second glance. Perhaps nobody ever did, he reflects, and it was his pride talking all along. It’s possible – Talia’s comparison to a peacock wasn’t completely baseless. Either way, in the eight weeks since Peter arrived at Beacon Hall, the cravats have fallen by the wayside.

Except for today. Today he’s been forced to wear one because his minx of a husband saw fit to suck a bruise into the side of his neck last night, and decency demands that Peter keeps the evidence of their passion covered, at least when they’re out in public.

The coach jolts again and Peter hisses between his teeth.

Stiles’s grin widens.

* * *

Viscount Stilinski rides ahead of the coach headed to Hale Manor. He’s always preferred horseback, and he’s happy to give his son and son in law some privacy.

The pair of them really are well matched. Stiles has no idea of the ways of society, and although Peter knows what the rules of proper behavior are, he seems disinclined to follow them. John heartily approves – so much of the protocol seems like foolishness to him, and he knows that a stuffed shirt would be no kind of match for his boy. There’s a burst of laughter from the coach, and John can hear Stiles talking a mile a minute. He’s glad it’s worked out for them, but he was both angry and relieved when he found out Talia was the cause of the whole misunderstanding, and he can’t blame Peter for being stubborn about it, not really.

He also can’t blame the pair of them for their plan to exact revenge by coaxing Talia’s housekeeper into their employ. They don’t know it yet, but John’s already ensured it’s a fait accompli. It didn’t take much – a pay rise, a private cottage for Mrs McGuigan and her family in the grounds, and the promise of employ for her husband and daughters. If that leaves Lady Hale minus her groundskeeper and her two remaining kitchen staff? Good. It serves her right.

John understands that Talia was in a desperate position – he’s seen the bills, after all – but that doesn’t mean he won’t enjoy the look on her face when he informs her that he’s taking her staff.

There’s one other thing that John’s arranged, something that the other two don’t know about.

They’re collecting Peter’s peacocks today and taking them back to Beacon Hall, and John’s aware that Talia will be glad to see the back of the birds. That’s why he’s having a gift of four more delivered to her first thing tomorrow morning, under the guise of replacing her beloved pets.

She’ll hate it, and the best part is that she can’t even object, lest John reverse the extremely generous monthly stipend he’s paying to support her household. No, Talia won’t be able to say a damn thing.

John knows it’s childish, and he doesn’t care. She deserves it.

Laughter drifts out of the window of the coach. John smiles to himself and wonders how long it will take those two fools to realize they’re in love. He suspects Peter already knows, if the softness in his gaze when he looks at his husband is anything to go by.

Stiles, on the other hand, will be unaware right up until he isn’t. John knows his son, knows the day will come, probably sooner than later, when he’ll drag his head out of whatever book he’s reading and suddenly notice that he’s hopelessly besotted with his husband. John can just imagine his son’s surprise.

Stiles will probably scramble to track Peter down and confess his feelings. And Peter, John knows, will smile at his son, ruffle his hair, and tease him for his obliviousness. Stiles will probably put a lizard down his back as revenge for the teasing, and then the pair of them will tumble upstairs laughing and holding hands.

It’s like living with children.

John loves it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this foolishness!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, all, this is practically finished, so I'll post it over the next week or so.I've carved out time for the winners of the fandom cares auction, even though I'm still neck deep in adult stuff relating my the book Discontentedwinter and I wrote. Go visit my [Tumblr](https://bunnywest.tumblr.com/post/622155271712768000/thisdiscontentedwinter-imprisoned-pickpocket) for all the news! (It doesn't have newts, but it does have a dragon!)


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